Death to the Magical

"Denn die Wahrheit ist eben kein Kristall,

die man in die Tasche stecken kann,

sondern ein unendlich Flußigkeit

in dem man hineinfällt."

(For the truth is not a crystal which you can stick in your pocket,

rather it is an unending stream that you fall into. )

--- Robert Musil, Mann Ohne Eigenschaften

Death to the Magical

Published by Roy Oltmann at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Roy Oltmann

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook should not be

re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another

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Foreword

The book you have in front of you was essentially finished in the summer of 1985. At

that time a few attempts to market the book were made, a couple of rejections were

received, and the book was set on the shelf. 25 years later I finally decided to scan it and

clean up the text in order to turn it loose.

I exhort readers to stick with it and not let the first chapter put you off. I’ve enclosed

section titles in the 2nd chapter to show that there is a plan to the book. (Yes, there are 2

Veronicas). I envision deleting these titles in the unlikely event of there ever being a

printed, book version. I’ve had to make some allowance for copyrighted material; I have

abridged songs quoted in the book at length to 1 line only with a notation. The numerous

literary references I naturally feel are homage to better writers than myself and certainly

not plagiarism.

About the cover: My cover of choice would have been a picture of the fountain in the

Paseo de San Jose which I refer to in the book, however I could not find any pictures of it.

My second choice, the Church at Ronchamps simply did not seem right, (I did include it at

the end of the book) . This picture I took myself during a stopover at the hot gates on the

road from Athens to Saloniki last summer. It’s the best picture I had, hopefully it will not

be seen as too pretentious.

Contents

A Day in the Life

The Passion of Franz

Death to the Magical

More of the Same

A Day in the Life

Waking naturally around seven, Franz threw the covers off with authority "I’ve a

terrible, errible lot to do today." He sped around, cranked the heater, punched on the

Stereo (KFAT what’s that?), lit the stove, put some water on and opened the shades.

Ooooh it’s another nice day in San Jose. He enjoyed the view of his front yard, the unruly

grass, cracked walkway, street, the low rent houses, palm tree with squirrel, antennas

and wires, and finally the sky. Yes, for minutes at a time he admired the world and might

do a little dance if the music was right.

The water soon became coffee and he liked it with a splash of milk. He sat there sort of

studying his Latin. Chapter 19 was the perfect passive of verbs, "Catullus bids a bitter

farewell to Lesbia." After he looked it over and did a few translations his attention waned.

Sometimes he did his homework on time but today it lay half-finished and he found

himself anointing the margins with various triangles, loops, smudges and connect-the-

dots games. There’s no rush, he thought, no problem on a Monday, it can wait. He sipped

his coffee, gazing idly at the sparsely decorated walls where he had some art prints cut

out from old Maestri di colore collections. On his right, he had a cork bulletin board on

which he kept various scraps of paper and quotes. One read "lever matinn’est point

bonheur, boirematin c’est le meilleur or to get up in the morning just isn’t gay, to drink

in the morning is a better way" from Rabelais no less. He also had a quote from

Aristophanes taken from a volume of Kierkegaard’s proving God’s existence, a couple of

postcards of the Gotheanum and Notre Dame de l’haute in Ronchamps, as well as some

snapshots taken by Franz himself.

Now he turned and sifted through the random accumulated household clutter spilling

onto the carpet. Every fourth or fifth day he was forced to restore order. As he looked

through his papers he found scribbled on the back of his notebook, The Me Generation,

but he thought it’s really their generation or your generation. People try to put us down

but since when are the students blamed for learning the lessons taught all too well? He

had also written there, the seventies age of solipsism, and this was harder to criticize.

While mostly true, he thought that the word doesn’t apply to me. After all why bother

reading the books. And he had a variety of books stacked, stored and strewn about the

place, a plank between the speaker boxes supported the paperbacks, heavier volume

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were piled on a small desk below the shelf. Not to mention those under the couch or

stuffed away in the closet. He not only collected them, he read them as well. Reading is

believing.

Not now though. Since it was morning, it was breakfast time. Franz relit the stove,

refilled the kettle and filled a bowl with cream of wheat, bananas and spice. Then from the

refrigerator an English muffin found its way into the toaster. While the water boiled and

muffin toasted, he stepped out the back door. Undaunted by the chill of the February

morning, he walked through the scattered weeds and wood scraps to look at his garden.

The mangy plants he cultivated were planted in a row alongside the house. Some were

knee high, which wasn’t bad considering that they hadn’t grown at all during the last few

months. He assured himself that the plants weren’t real y dead, just dormant, laying low

till the onslaught of spring. Come June they’d be as high as an elephant’s eye. Most of the

yard was still in the chilly shadow and his booties were soaked through with dew. Franz

stood yet a moment still. Yes, even in the backyard he was alone, unheeded, happy; in

short young, -willful, wild hearted. With a deep breath he turned and hopped on back to

the house.

The water was boiling as expected and the muffin was ready. Seated again at the table

he looked at the clock. He thought, as long as I’m going to school might as well get there

on time. The radio was playing Bing Crosby’s Accentuate the Positive. His favorite song,

he turned up the radio and sang along watching the sunlight stream through the glass

door. Franz switched the heater off and set his feet in the sunshine’s path. Leisurely

breakfast, pleasant, now an instrumental came on, bluegrass. Lapped in soft Lydian airs,

warmed by the wheat and the sun. Happier than the morning sun. Happy, sure try not

to be, there’s always something to charm you.

Yawn, Franz perked up and started gathering his papers together, then he started

clearing the table off. He put the clothes on the couch, books on the floor, stacked the

papers up, then the dishes to the sink and washing yesterday’s first. Quickly done, he

stood at the window blank-minded, looking out over the weed and junk strewn backyard

of his neighbor, he stretched indolent, window needs to be washed. Again the clock,

edging past 8:30 and the news on the radio, don’t need to hear that stuff. He switched it

to phono and put on an old Stones album from before his time, loud, just the thing you

need in the morning.

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To the music, he stepped around to the bedroom, the whole room taken up by a king

size bed. The walls were bare but for a Michelin map of France. Vive la France. He liked to

have a feminine presence in the room. Contemplating his wardrobe, the magic of the new

day dimmed slightly. Oh, it was no dilemma, any shirt will do. He found a yellow dress

shirt, not too formal, good enough. This is 1978 after all, wear whatever you feel like. Just

let the inner me shine through. It’s OK.

By this time the record had spun down to his favorite song of the week. He turned the

stereo up and sang I used to love her along with Mick Jagger. Sing the blues, he liked

the song, not that it had any special significance to him, it was just good. Over with a flick

of the wrist from loud-sound to silence-still. Just like that in control. Last flurry of activity,

brush the teeth, comb the hair, grab a coat, don’t need a hat. Latin book and English

notebook, catch the bus in seconds flat. Pull the shades, open the door, pen wait, grabs a

cool plastic pen, nothing else. Rushing out into the sunlit day.

***

Alighting from the bus on First Street, Franz skirted a few shops and turned right to

follow the El Paseo de San Jose towards the school. This was the scenic route, brick laid,

tree-lined and terraced, nice touch. Still he had the song in his head and a half smiling

face to wordlessly greet any passers-by, singing to himself, ready to move onto ripe to

fields, new vistas, the new day at last. Oh darn it, he thought as he stopped short at

Second St. ,I forgot my English book. Allowing cars the green light right of way, Franz

stood in the thin February sunlight not too worried about having forgotten his book. At

San Jose State, in the humanities, the professors were usually pleased enough when the

students enrol ed actually showed up for class. If you had actually done the reading or

less likely the assignment, why that was just icing on the cake so to speak.

Nearing the mall’s end at Third St. he alerted to the sound of rushing water, waters

fall. There as part of a redevelopment project, a massive fountain had been built, most

certainly with Federal funds; suburbia had decided to beautify itself with a concrete

waterfall. Very appropriate. Yet waters course is always pleasant, continuity made visible;

read Siddhartha on the significance of waterfalls and rivers. Water lives in the present

only, omnipresent only or in a syllable OM. Right, who needs it? Better a slash through

life, find rather a momentary identification, the same world then changed utterly. Forget

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who you are, then remember again. He crossed the street and followed the sidewalk that

led between two huge dirt parking lots, the unscenic route, what was that again?

Better to bring it up to date, change the ending too. And mark in every tanned, well-

fed face I meet, marks of contentment, self-satisfaction. Self-knowledge California style;

be convinced that you know yourself already. This is the answer, what was that question

again? Here it is, as Franz watched a co-ed walking by, pretty smiling, pleasant first thing

in the morning. And books, what is it? It’s a heavy sucker, Business Law, that figures -

mind forged manacles, it fits. Through a subdued archway, he emerged on a common, the

original university grounds complete with Ivy covered tower and palm trees.

Plotting a course of 70 degrees to the left, he set off across the dew covered lawn.

Other students, determined, crossed and traversed the lawn too. Franz was among them,

walking along. On reaching the walkway on the other side, he was swept along in a

moving row of students. His eyes caught on faces, dislodge, on women, separate, he

walked along numbed by the still spritely air and by the multitude of which he was a part;

a member in good standing, 30,000 strong. At times, upon reflection, he himself seemed

situated in his eyes, his face would seem to contract, tighten, his features slightly distort.

Am I smiling, he’d wonder? Or think of his hair, recently combed, already unkempt, he’d

pass a hand through it. Silent command, you up there, down boy, stay. Yet he was also

glad that he had somewhere to go, he had chosen it after all. No need to fade away in the

morning; be bold, bold as love. The crowd debouched into Seventh St. Franz grabbed a

Spartan daily and joined the throng waiting to enter the engineering building. He went in

the building, going right to the stairs which he took two at a time up to the third floor. On

entering the classroom he greeted his classmates with a hello or maybe a wordless smile

and seated himself in the second row to the left. He opened the student paper and

proceeded to read it with exaggerated interest.

***

The class was a small community of thirteen eager students. Every day at half-past

nine the Latin coach steamed in and weighed anchor. There from the bridge she led the

class following a daily outline, first things first. Often enough every student came to class,

perhaps because Latin was one subject which satisfied few if any General Ed

requirements.

4

The hour proceeded in an orderly fashion. Though the coach was not above making

lengthy digressions, she tried to stick to her outline. Today’s plan was to review the

perfect passive and the interrogative pronouns. Franz, had or so it seemed, a tacit

understanding with the sympathetic professor so that if she, asking a question, glanced

his way, he with his eyes, could signal his willingness to respond to the question. Today

he had decided to volunteer early on one of the sentences he had prepared, thus to avoid

the later embarrassment of being called on to translate a sentence he hadn’t done. For he

didn’t like to be put on the spot, had trouble thinking when the attention was focused on

him, felt uncomfortable. Yet he was not the only reticent student in class, others too were

reserved, reluctant to speak out. He had that in common with them; the resignation of the

modern college student. Learning become passive, just teach us teacher, just explain it

but don’t bother me, it’s nothing personal after all. I’ll just sit here and take notes.

With some pupils complaining of the Monday morning blahs the class responded only

sluggishly to the presentation. The professor, receiving only one word replies to her

questions, concluded that no one had done the homework. She announced that it was due

tomorrow and "you’d better do it, guys, because if you fall behind here when we get to

the participles you’re really going to be lost in the woods."

Ok, let’s talk about Catullus, that’s page 91, who wants to start? (Silence) Ah, Mr.

Ozisch, why don’t you do the first two sentences? "Franz, feeling double-crossed, replied,

"At the bottom? ’

Yes, page 91, at the bottom.

You want me to read it first?

Right, She rolled her eyes, At the bottom, page 91, read it first.

Vale, puella, iam Catullus obdurat. Scelesta, vaete!

Good, now translate it. It’s not hard.

Beats me what it means." Uah, Farewell girl, now Catullus be strong, woe to you

wicked one?" (In the footnote each word had been translated. )

That was easy, do the next one too.

Quae tibimanet vita? Hmmm, Tibi is dative, manet is third person singular?"

Uh huh, meaning? (Silence) Who can help?

5

Franz rapidly turned to the glossary, someone else beat him to and said "remain, stay

abide."

Tentatively, Franz summed up, What life remains to you?

Fine, Mrs. Fugacy, would you please continue.

Unperturbed by her lack of preparation she proceeded to wade through the next

sentence. Franz listened for a while then let his attention wane, unmoved by the eternal

troubles of poor Catullus, "Hurt my eyes wide open, that’s no lie, now the tables turning

and it’s her turn to cry." He’d rather silently sing the song again than listen to the Latin.

Or just view the class in action, observing only, separating himself from the discussion.

Easy to do, wonder about the other students, sure, stereotype them too. The housewives,

secure in themselves, my mother would fit right in. Now that the kids are grown up, it’s

important that I do something for myself too, noble sacrifice, thanks Mom for being you.

What was that? Quemnunc Amabis? Can’t say someone. Who will love you now? How

about say Miss Smith, she’s in class every day and Franz watched her, covertly. She was

following the discussion, a strand of hair curled around a finger, sort of stern, impassive,

no inexpressive features, she was easily the best student in the class yet even more

reluctant to say anything than Franz himself. She wrote her homework in a script that was

so small that it only took up 1/4 of the space available on a lined page. You can get

serious eyestrain trying to copy answers off her. And, if not her then someone else, right?

Perhaps that German girl, Rita or maybe Martha? Why not Sophia herself? Franz found

himself rubbing his thumb against his forefinger, a callus had formed there. He stopped

when he thought about it and closed his book waiting for twenty after. The class was

almost over and the Coach was relaxed and talking about the I Claudius series being

shown on Channel 9.

"It’s a true story; those ancient Romans didn’t mess around. They were fighting for

control of the whole civilized world, which was to them the whole world. It’s like a glorified

soap opera, but that’s the way it was, she gestured with a wave of the hand palms up.

Ok kids, see you tomorrow and do those sentences, please."

Franz swept his books off the table and was one of the first to leave, for he never

lingered, another day of Latin under his belt.

***

6

Franz was seated now in the courtyard below the business building where the English

classes met. Here it was warm enough in the sun. Franz, after rolling a cigarette,

proceeded to smoke it. He was waiting for his eleven o’clock English class. Or maybe not,

still undecided, is it worth my time to go to that class or should I just drop it, forget it?

He looked over some of the notes he had taken during the introductory lecture.

Dismayed, no he was depressed by what the voluble professor had said last Wednesday,

background material. On the paper were written some phrases that stuck out, "The

romantics rebelled against the rationalistic outlook." He had underlined rationalistic

outlook, it sounded so fine. Return to nature as a reaction to the industrial revolution.

Or again the Victorian reaction to romanticism. Mathew Arnold in Dover Beach, "He gave

up poetry because he thought it was inadequate to express." Oh, here’s a good one,

suspend your disbelief, what a bastard phrase that is.

Professor, I refuse to suspend my disbelief long enough to believe what you’re telling

me. It’s a double negative anyway, he thought suspend your disbelief, change it to the

imperative, you believe! Why do we read great books? And then not one but seven, count

‘em, seven reasons for it. I really should have taken notes on that too. And he paused in

his thought to roll another cigarette, though his mouth was already dry from the first one.

Rick, hey, Rick, Franz said spotting a guy he knew, a fellow English major.

Franz, he said, approaching, How you doing?

Just fine, just fine, have a seat. So, how’d your schedule work out?

"It didn’t matter, I got all the classes I wanted anyway. I’m taking four English

classes."

That’s not bad, I guess. So are going to stay in this one, Modern English Novel?

Yeah, the professor is pretty good and the reading list is interesting.

"You liked him, he seemed kind of arrogant to me, ’Mr. Leonard, Ph. D. Stanford

University. ’"

I don’t know, his lecture on Friday was interesting and he only requires two papers.

Well, it’s kind of hard to take sometimes, look at all the people he quoted. Mr.

Leonard had alluded to Lionel Trilling, Roland Barthes, Gabriel Marceau, Wittgenstein, Karl

Jaspers, Vince Lombardi, Thomas Pynchon and Lionel Trilling. , These were the names

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Franz had written down in his notes." He didn’t miss very many, I mean who can follow

up on all that?"

He’s alright, Rick said, I need the class anyway. So, what else are you taking?

"I’ve got my Latin, a German class, modern lyric and drama but, I don’t know about

that one. So what do you have anyway?"

"Let’s see, I’ve got a Myth class, that’s a good one, and modern poetry and one on

Greek Fiction, plus I’ve got another Psych class."

That’s a lot of papers to write.

"I know but I want to graduate this year, I worked it out and it’s only eleven papers all

together.

Whatever happened on your Joyce paper, did you get it back?"

"I don’t think I ever turned it in, but I was writing on Stephen’s aesthetic theory and

his theory is so inconsistent that my paper turned out that way too. And then my mind

wanders."

"Well, that’s how you learn. I got an A on mine. I did it on Molly’s soliloquy and Jung. I

told you, I think I compared it with Jung’s theory on Archetypes. But see, I had a paper

for my last Psych class to do and I used the same paper, just retyped it, and changed it a

little."

Hey, why not?So what else have you been up to?

"The usual, I’ve been running a lot. On Saturday I did 6 miles. I like that feeling of

exhaustion and sweat dripping down my body. I’ve been working out too, I’ll have to cut

back some, get back to the grind."

"During the break I went and saw that Woody Allen movie, Annie Hall. It was good,

witty. Some of the scenes were great. In one they’re standing on a balcony talking about

abstract painting, modern art and it shows subtitles of what Woody Allen is really thinking

– forget the art, I’d like to get into this girl’s pants. He shrugged, it was hard to

describe. It’s worth going to see.

I’ve been meaning to see that, I like Woody Allen a lot

You’ve still got my number right? We can go see a show sometime.

Sure

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Well, I think I’m going to mosey on to class, you coming?

Split-second decision, "Naw, I think I’ll pass this time, I’ve got to go to the library.

Catch you later."

Ok, take care.

Oh brother, Franz thought to himself, I guess I’l scratch that class. Maybe I should go

just to see how he explains the subject away. Of course the problem was, is, and Franz

knew this, that almost everything the professor said was also true, too true, true to the

max. He meanwhile left the courtyard and began to walk slowly through the campus

towards the library, trying to explain to himself. I mean, the quotes too, are good, Lionel

Trilling etc. , what can you single out to disagree with? Sit in class after say 10 minutes,

you think, this professor is pretty good. I can learn from this guy, you take notes. After 20

minutes, huh? That’s interesting, still taking notes. 30 minutes gone by, what did he just

say? No more notes. After 40 minutes, whoa boy! What’s he talking about now? Where’d

that come from? You are incredulous. And after 50 minutes you’re stupefied; open the

door please and let me out, thank you. The result is that the professor has devalued his

whole subject. Why do we read great books? It’s a rhetorical question, it turns out, and to

the students’ silence he’s much too willing to explain everything.

Class you might want to take notes here. Find out what he wants then feed it back to

him in your paper, voilá, an A student. These essays themselves are opportunities to

perform, to show your stuff, are just a waste of time. Expository writing, well you need to

work on developing a theme, you know any theme, pick a theme, one’s as good as

another, at least to these professors. And of course he throws in the jokes, because he’s

hip right? Walking along Franz was agitated by what he thought, the sarcastic comments,

hey pound on Nixon and Watergate, like the guy was a clown and not a criminal. Oh yes,

TV too, deodorant selling meathead football players, or "Sunday Church going hypocrite

Christians. And he’s right of course. And don’t forget, ignorant high school graduates

who can’t read or write. Hey, it’s pretty funny, the laughing professor, that’s good." Le

professor qui rit." Then a picture one of those liberal well-fed pleasers on the cover,

Matière Grosse, 50 per cent. Who cut the cheese? The laughing professor.

Here Franz had to laugh, surprised at his own vehemence and distrust. What can you

do about it anyway?

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